


No Need For A List

by Hannah_jo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Doctor John Watson, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Mentioned Mrs Hudson, Pre-Season/Series 01, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_jo/pseuds/Hannah_jo
Summary: Mycroft didn't need a list of the drugs Sherlock was currently on. It was quite apparent from the fine powder accompanied with needles strewn across the room, as well as the small white pills that laid innocently in their open pill bottles. Mycroft knew his brother had fell into the grasp of a nasty seven percent solution and opioids a long time ago, but its grasp had only seemed to hold tighter lately. This can only lead to one thing: Rehab.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	1. Resignation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Brother mine, I'm sending you to rehab, and Dr.Watson will oversee your treatment."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833470) by [Watson_to_my_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watson_to_my_Holmes/pseuds/Watson_to_my_Holmes). 



Mycroft didn't need a list of the drugs Sherlock was currently on. It was quite apparent from the fine powder accompanied with needles strewn across the room, as well as the small white pills that laid innocently in their open pill bottles. Mycroft knew his brother had fell into the grasp of a nasty seven percent solution and opioids a long time ago, but its grasp had only seemed to hold tighter lately. It wouldn't take the opinion of a doctor to realize the little brother was very ill from his continued use. Already a slender man, it was surprising to see his nightshirt hang loosely on his frame, and his coat he held wrapped around him was more of a blanket than a garment. Upon talking to Sherlock, his problems became more apparent. Anger was brought upon easily, no matter the words being said. He became euphoric, then depressed; confident, then paranoid. His flat held a similar mood; all curtains were pulled closed, and dust piled on surrounding furniture. 

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady downstairs, kept a wary eye on Sherlock from a distance, yet when food remained uneaten for just short of a week and signs of hallucinations suggested the hint of another overdose, she decided the best thing would be to let the big brother handle things. Mycroft knew few things could be done, so he decided the best course of action would be to confront his sibling addict about what had to be done: Rehab. 

As expected, Sherlock did not happily waltz out of the door into the car waiting for him. "Mycroft, my affairs are nothing but my own, and are not in need to be of any discussion. My drug use is simply for my own benefit, as it helps my brain understand what it normally cannot. Intelligence is key when it comes to my line of work, and these drugs open a doorway in my mind that not even your mind could begin to imagine."

Mycroft would have scoffed at his remarks, yet understood that that would do nothing except go against the outcome he was trying to achieve. "Brother mine, I hope you are aware you are speaking on behalf on your grandiose delusions. And need not I remind you that you are currently in no line of work? DI Lestrade has informed me you have not answered to any cases in weeks." Mycroft's voice held his usual, calm tone, yet he wished nothing more but for his brother to just accept his wishes. "For a man whose only entertainment came from these cases, I find that hard to believe."

Sherlock sat up with a jolt, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. "I'm taking a break. Isn't that what you complained to be about not even a year ago?" Sherlock imitated his brother's voice. "'Take a break, brother mine. You're working too hard, brother mine.'" Satisfied with his remarks, the addict curled himself back up in the chair. 

"I don't want to tell our mother about this, Sherlock."

Sherlock moved his head to get a better view of his brother before returning back to his spot. "So what?"

"Do you remember last time, brother mine? You were much younger then. Do you remember when I gave her that list that you gave me? It tore her up. Hell, Sherlock, it tore you up. You promised her you would never get into anything like it ever again. You hated to see her so upset about what you had done with yourself, so imagine what she will think if she sees you how I see you now. Do her a favour. Don't let her see you in this state. You are fully aware that she will wish to come to see you and take care of you. What do you prefer? Mummy constantly being by your side, or no more than a few months in a facility?" 

Mycroft could tell that his words had impacted Sherlock at least a fair amount, and hopefully that was all Mycroft needed. Sherlock remained still in his chair, but Mycroft could not see his brother's face from his angle. Silence lingered for a few more moments. Hesitantly, Sherlock broke it. "Tell me about it."

"As expected, you will be receiving considerable amounts of special treatment. Upon my request and the influence of a hefty sum of cash, a doctor at the facility has been hired to only assist one patient; you. I am fully aware of your antisocial habits, and therefore you will be granted special privileges of being excluded from most group meetings and activities, and in addition to this, you will be allowed to eat your meals in your room or with your doctor. The only exception will be group therapy, but you will only need to attend three times a week, and staff has already been informed that you do not need to talk or be called on." Sherlock was sitting up by now, and rolled his eyes at the comment. Mycroft noticed. "I know you seem to despise common human interaction, Sherlock, but I cannot change everything. I say this, but there is one more privilege I have granted you. DI Lestrade will be taking the time to put new cases in files that will be delivered daily to you. Think of it as a daily crossword puzzle."

Mycroft noticed Sherlock's hands trembling in his lap as Sherlock sat in his own little bubble, trying to find a way to bring himself out of the current situation. His thoughts were a scramble, and he knew that not much could be done. He sighed in resignation. "When do I leave?"

Mycroft was already typing away on his phone, and no more than a few seconds later, the downstairs door could be heard opening. "Now. People will gather your clothes and any other essential items that you may need for your stay. Will you want more comfortable attire for your stay or your usual, more formal attire?

"Brother mine, do you know me as a man of change?"

"Sherlock, right now I'm not convinced I know you at all." A brief moment passed between them. Sherlock took the comment as more of an insult than anything, but he was unable to understand that Mycroft's words hid sorrow, not blame or anger.

After two suited men passed the foyer and into Sherlock's flat, Mycroft led Sherlock not only out of his home, but hopefully out of his lifestyle as well.


	2. Allowance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allowance. Something that is permitted. This is something that Sherlock is heavily being tested on as he walks into a new lifestyle.

Sherlock felt as if he were being walked into a principal's office rather than a rehab facility as his brother walked him in with a firm hand on his shoulder and he held a small bag of clothes in his hand. The building itself was nice, and Mycroft hoped he would not have to regret spending the fortune he did on placing Sherlock there. Mycroft told his men to drive off for the time being until called upon once more, so him and his brother were left to enter the building alone. Long covered walkways curved around gardens and trees and made easy access to the front doors, which were glass and provided a clear view into short but wide entryway. Mycroft enjoyed the nicely decorated walkway and its elegance in design, but Sherlock could care less as they made their way to the door. 

"I'm not a child, Mycroft. You don't need to hold me down in fear of me running." Nonetheless, Mycroft's hand remained in place until they reached the door and a young woman opened the door for the two of them. A quick exchange of formalies was exchanged, and the woman brought the two of them into another room.

Her chipper voice was nothing but relaxing to Sherlock. "This is the intake room. All you will need to do in this room is sign a few consent forms and talk to a recovery specialist." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the words, to which Mycroft gave a short sigh. The woman, whose name Sherlock didn't care to catch, carefully set down a few stacks of paper in front of the brothers. By this time, Sherlock was already needing another fix. his nerves were restless, and he struggled to look at the papers. The forms seemed to judge him as they sat on the table. 

The woman could easily tell Sherlock was in a bad state. "I'll go out to retrieve some water. I'll collect the forms when I come back." Sherlock squinted at the woman as she walked out, trying to deduce something about her. He couldn't find anything. 

"Difficulties, brother mine?"

"Are you aware of how often you say that? It's quite annoying," Sherlock snapped. Mycroft said nothing in reply, knowing that nothing good could come out of an argument. He filled out the papers that he could as Sherlock sat next to him wrapped in his coat. Apart from the faint scratches of pen on paper and the lightest tick of a clock, nothing but silence filled the room. After a few more moments, Mycroft slid the papers over to Sherlock.

"I filled out everything I could. I put myself under the primary contact, but I've also listed DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mummy if you ever feel social."

"Why the hell would I want to talk to Mrs. Hudson? Or Mummy?"

"Please, Sherlock, all that's required of you at this moment is to sign your name a few places." Mycroft held out the pen towards Sherlock, who finally accepted it with a sigh. He signed anywhere there was an empty blank, not caring to read what he was signing for. This earned him a sigh in return from Mycroft.

Before any further arguments could be made, the woman returned with two small glasses of water. The older brother accepted it with a polite nod, yet the younger just gave it a scowl. The woman directed her gaze towards Sherlock. "These are unusual circumstances, but for you, Mr. Holmes, your recovery specialist is also your doctor. He will be here shortly, but until then I will need to take your coat and bag to be checked, and for you to empty any pockets you may have." Contrary to his usual outing attire, Sherlock had not bothered to change out of his nightshirt and sweatpants. Because of this he felt very exposed in taking off his jacket, and silently slumped back into his chair with a grimace on his face.

Much to his satisfaction, the woman moved her attention from Sherlock to Mycroft. "Sir, the rest of today's interactions will not need family, so you are free to leave. Of course, if you are wanted by your brother here, you are free to stay." Sherlock gave a moments glare to Mycroft, who for once decided not to argue and accept Sherlock's wishes. This is a big step for Sherlock; whether a forced step or not. Mycroft shook his head as a reply. "Alright then. The first week is no family contact, although I believe that you may have some privileges of sending certain files that you will be able to do. Until then, you have a nice day!"

Mycroft hated the faked chipperness in the woman's voice almost as much as Sherlock did, yet was much better at concealing it. He escorted himself to the door, looking back in the room where Sherlock sits, knees to chest. All he could do was hope that the next time he saw his brother, there would be improvement. 

Sherlock was not near as hopeful about the future as he began to sweat and felt a headache coming on. He was much more focused on these things than the man who walked in, cane in hand. He didn't notice when the man lingered by the door, watching Sherlock with a questioning eye. Before too much time passed, the man left his post, moving into view and extending his hand to the addict. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm Doctor John Watson. I hear you're quite the patient." 

Sherlock's hands remained wrapped around his knees rather than taking the hand outstretched to him. Similar to earlier, his skills in deduction were lacking, and could only find one thing about the man. Feeling vulnerable in his lack of intelligence, he verbalized his thought. "Army." The addict couldn't work out how he came to this conclusion, only knew it was right. 

The doctor placed his own stack of papers on the table as he plopped down, rather abruptly, into his seat. Doctor Watson observed Sherlock in a curious silence, which made Sherlock very exposed in his lack of ability to do the same to him. The doctor had a warmer voice, yet Sherlock still jumped when he finally spoke up. "We are going to go through your daily schedule and what we offer you here. Once you are done with that, we will get the medical assessments over with, which I am also in charge of." The addict's eyes remained fixated on his hands, to which Doctor Watson gave a small chuckle. "Sherlock, you are going to be seeing a lot of me in the next few months. It's in you best interest to work with me here."

Sherlock did not appreciate the use of his first name, as it gave a sense of false friendship. One that Sherlock was not nearly ready to have. Nevertheless, he removed his knees from his chest and rested his elbows cautiously on the table. He gave a short nod of acknowledgement towards his doctor. 

Doctor John Watson began the long speech of times, schedules, and, "opportunities," as he so eloquently put it. Sherlock paid little attention, only picking up the big picture of what the doctor was stating. As the cheery woman from earlier returned, Sherlock's attention shifted to the additional stacks of paper in the woman's hand. Sherlock assumed the papers were for the medical assessments, to which he was proved right as Doctor Watson took the papers and led them into another room. 

The next two hours did not pass so smoothly as Sherlock was heavily in need of another fix. Questions were given short responses and the physical took the majority of an hour as he did everything possible to make things harder for the doctor. Doctor Watson did not seem to mind the tantrum-like fits, and instead found it a challenge, if anything. When Sherlock did everything in his power to not answer a question, the doctor would stare at the addict directly in his eyes until Sherlock felt too vulnerable to continue being stared down. Of course, this sort of domination over him he despised, yet nothing more could be done. And with this, the assessments were finally complete. 

It was explained to Sherlock that a tour would be given later, but the first few days would be purely for detox and he would remain in his room. He was given his bag and his coat, much to his enjoyment. The walk to his room was long, as he was given a much bigger room than most due to Mycroft's finances. Sherlock's eyes were irritated and began tearing up, but he could see the big windows allowing a view to a large garden outside. The room was bright in the afternoon soon, much to Sherlock's despise. "Curtains?"

His doctor's voice sounded behind him. "It is encouraged to have more natural light in the rooms." Sherlock walked towards the window, squinting at the light. He knocked a few times on the glass and observed the panels. "Yes, the window is very hard to break, and most obviously locked. We were informed you could be very determined to leave." Sherlock's attention shifted to a door. "Locked as well, but only for now. Leads to a small room, specifically transformed from a storage closet to something for you."

Sherlock gave a questioning look, waiting for him to give him extra information. When none was given, he took the bait. "What is it?"

"Your brother set it up. He wanted it to be some sort of surprise, or reward after your first week." Sherlock scoffed at the remark.

He continued to observe the plain room, fit with a small dresser, bed, desk, and shelf. Another door led to a small bathroom on the side. There was also a small bucket next to the bed, which Sherlock knew he would detest the use for it later. Doctor Watson made his way past Sherlock and plopped himself into the plush desk chair. "You, Mr. Holmes, have the luxury of having almost twenty-four hour supervision while you undergo detox. And that supervision is me." The doctor gestured to himself with a smile. 

Sherlock almost gave him an amused smile, but knew what the next few days entailed. His headache throbbed at the thought of it. 

The only safety he felt he had was the protection of his coat wrapped tightly around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who interested, I'll try to update every day to every other day until this is finished.


	3. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This office of mine may seem scary to you. But with just a little bit of trust, this will be your ticket out of here. All you have to do is accept it."

The second day was the worst. Most of the time, especially on the first night of his arrival, his doctor John Watson was seen to be more of a pesky fly or annoying student rather than anybody of assistance. On the contrary, when nausea kicked in, sweat dripped down his body, and his anxiety and paranoia were through the roof, he did not mind the presence of the doctor, whose soothing words brought him away from his racing thoughts. 

Still, anger and irritability were always right around the corner. Doctor Watson had brought in a computer for his own entertainment, and the ceaseless tapping of keys had caused many rage-fueled outbursts. The doctor found more amusement out of his tantrums than anything else, complying to the addict's demands for mere seconds before continuing his typing once more. This process repeated itself many, many times before Sherlock had too much of it. 

"I could get my brother to fire you if you keep doing that." Despite the many nights without sleep, Sherlock was restless. He couldn't sit still for more than a moment, and he could hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

Doctor Watson merely glanced up from his computer screen. "Mm." As expected, the lack of answer made rage build up once more in Sherlock's gut, yet the only thing that came up was a nice bucket of vomit. After a few more moments, the feeling passed.

"You were in the army." Doctor Watson gave a brief nod. Sherlock didn't expect any further comments from the man, and directed his attention towards the screen the man was typing away at. "What are you doing, and why does it have to be so annoying?"

The doctor smiled at the computer, then at Sherlock. "This," he pointed at the screen, "This is my therapy. It's a blog, of some sorts. To answer your... comment... yes, I was in the army. And I'm recovering from it similar to how you are recovering from this." Sherlock was about to roll his eyes, when Doctor Watson snapped at him: literally. "Don't roll your eyes, which I know you are about to do. This place is intended to help, Sherlock. You just have to accept the help that is given to you."

Sherlock thought about the man's words for a moment. "There's no way you can just be blogging for this long."

"Mm, I also fill out work and patient documents, or record what my current patient is doing." Doctor Watson looked towards Sherlock with a small grin. "And Mr. Holmes, you have not been the most interesting." The two men exchanged looks, and even Sherlock had to give a small chuckle.

The next few days went by similarly, one of which allowed Sherlock a few hours of sleep. When he awoke, Doctor John Watson was gone and had been replaced by a plump, red-haired woman. She stated she was there to make sure Sherlock got some food in his system and so his doctor got some sleep. Sherlock was not at all thrilled with the woman, as her voice was cold and she smelled strongly of cleaning agents. He ate his food rather quickly in hopes of his doctor returning, but there was no such luck as the woman stayed for many hours on end. 

Sherlock himself was surprised at his preference of one person over another, yet shrugged off the thought when he looked at the competition; a woman with the demeanor of a shark and the smell of a janitor. 

When the last day of detox passed, Sherlock was taken on a tour of the building. His mind was nowhere near its full capacity yet, however Sherlock still tried to deduce his new acquaintance. He looked at the cane Doctor Watson used for his limp, which he had reason to believe was psychosomatic. Similar to before, he was not for certain how he came to this conclusion, only that it was there. His attention was pulled away as the two arrived in what appeared to be the cafeteria, where patients sat at table conversing among one another. As they walked into the large, open room, many eyes lingered on Sherlock, leaving him to wrap himself in the protection of his coat. A few smiled, a few waved, but none were given any acknowledgement in return from Sherlock.

Doctor John Watson noticed his patient's discomfort, and led him into another hallway, multiple rooms on either side. In one, there were games and exercise equipment; In another, arts and crafts supplies. Rooms of different hobbies continued down the length of the hallway, and eyes from every room took their turn to have a good stare at Sherlock. Around the corner from this hallway, another series of rooms appeared, these filled only with chairs of different sizes and styles. In these rooms, larger groups of people gathered, and they did not pay as much attention to the new patient walking by. It was in these rooms that Sherlock knew he would have the hardest time, and he walked by them on quick feet.

After walking the length of a few more hallways, Sherlock found himself in front of an office not too far from his room. In contrast to Doctor Watson, who walked right in, Sherlock hesitantly waited outside. The doctor gave his patient a curious smile. "Sherlock, this is not a trap. This is my office, a place just for you to talk and be in." Doctor Watson walked his way towards one of two chairs facing one another, and motioned towards the other with the end of his cane. When Sherlock made no effort of moving, the doctor continued. "I know this is not something you want to go through. It doesn't take a genius to see that you are not a man of many words. And that is your downfall." Sherlock gave a quick look of confusion towards his doctor, hinted with irritation. Doctor Watson sighed. "This office of mine may seem scary to you. But with just a little bit of trust, this will be your ticket out of here. All you have to do is accept it."

And with a few more ticks of the clock, Sherlock took his first step over the threshold.


	4. Backtracking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was not a man of many words, and when words were required, they were thought through and based on fact. The addict was well aware of what was to come and what was expected of him in this room. This room was where his words had to come from his heart, not his head.

There were no explosions, no fireworks, and no catastrophes when he finally stepped over the threshold. There was simply carpet. 

Sherlock obliged with the doctor's requests, cautiously sitting himself down in the chair across from Doctor Watson. The doctor gave Sherlock an almost proud sort of smile, like a kid who has came back with all A's. He reached towards his desk, grabbing a small clipboard. "Now we have come to the fun part."

"Doctor Watson, this has not been and never will be fun." 

"Just Watson, please." 

As Watson had stated previously, Sherlock was not a man of many words, and when words were required, they were thought through and based on fact. The addict was well aware of what was to come and what was expected of him in this room. This room was where his words had to come from his heart, not his head. Sherlock was not ready to open himself up to a mere acquaintance. Of course, in Sherlock's mind, he was not ready to open himself up to anybody. His protection came from his secrecy.

Needless to say, Watson was well aware of this fact. "I won't ask much of you in these first days. But you need to speak. Say your struggles, say your fears, say anything, for Christ's sake. I need something."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Why?" He was fully aware of why. He knew how therapy worked. "I could just sit here in silence for the hour or so you have me in here."

"Don't be an arse, Sherlock." 

"I don't mind," Sherlock snapped. It was a simple, quick exchange, yet it felt anything but. Sherlock sat in silence, waiting for a rant, a scolding, a tirade, something. But all there was was a laugh. Not a giggle or chuckle, a genuine laugh. 

Sherlock gave his doctor a quizzical look as he continued his laughter. Sherlock was unable to hold back a chuckle from himself. His retort was not the most mature thing to be said. 

"Yeah, I'm sure you don't, Sherlock," Watson giggled. For Sherlock, the room was not as fearful as it first had been. "But," Watson reached towards his desk once more, retrieving a manilla envelope, "I have some incentive for you. You recognize this?" He waved the envelope in front of Sherlock, almost as a taunt. 

"I'm going to take a guess from the Scotland Yard logo on it and the words, 'Case Confidential,' that it's one of my cases?"

"Oi, you really are a detective!" The two continue their laughter, and tension dissipates. "But yes, this is one of your cases. And you don't get it until you cooperate." Watson returned the folder to his desk. 

"My brother would not approve of you defying his orders. You have been told that those cases go directly to me as a-" Sherlock imitated quotation marks, "'-Daily crossword.'"

"Sherlock, I could care less about your brother. He doesn't intimidate me." Sherlock scoffed at his remark. Silence lingered for a few moments more. "You play chess? Of course you do." Watson motioned towards the wall behind him, filled with books on psychology and addiction, as well as a plethora of board games. "Would you like to play?" Sherlock shook his head, his eye caught on another game. Watson's eyes followed Sherlock's gaze. "Is there another game you have in mind?" 

Sherlock knew how to play chess brilliantly, of course, but another game, barely used, hit him closer to home. He pointed towards a yellow box, shoved away in the corner. "That."

Watson chuckled. "You want to play Operation?" He shot Sherlock a questioning look. "I don't think I've ever had someone play that with me before." Sherlock said nothing in reply, and with a grunt, Watson got up to retrieve the game, placing it down on the floor in between the two chairs. 

"Playing on the floor doesn't seem too professional." 

"Who said I was?" questioned Watson with a smile. With another grunt, the doctor was sitting on the floor, and a moment later, so was Sherlock. "What is so special about this game?"

Sherlock fumbled with the small pieces, setting them in their proper place. "My brother and I play it. Played it. When we were younger."

"It hardly seems like a game such intelligent men would play."

"We have our own twist to it. Anyways, it's nice to have a mental break every once in a while."

Watson stopped putting in the pieces to the game and looked up at Sherlock. "I was under the impression that you are driven insane if you aren't constantly doing something."

Sherlock put the last piece into the board. He thought for a moment. "That is true, I suppose. I just don't need my source of entertainment to take constant brain power." Sherlock sat back, unsatisfied with his words. "No, I just don't need to be doing something... physical?" The frustrated addict could not find the words that he wanted, the words that he felt. Watson gave a simple nod, understanding Sherlock's words more than Sherlock did. 

With only a bit of effort, Watson took out the first piece: his choice of the rubber band in the leg. "Do you get along well with your family?"

Sherlock continued to look at Watson as he played. "I wouldn't know how a normal family gets along." Without even a glance, he swiftly pulls out the bird from the head. 

The doctor looked at Sherlock in bewilderment. "Did you...?" He waves off the thought. "You and your brother Mycroft, how do you two get on?"

"He's a twat, usually." Although Sherlock thought this sums his brother up perfectly, he pondered for a moment more. "Although, he's one of the only people who have similar mental ability to my own. No one else comes close." Sherlock looked up to Watson for a response, but none came. He took this as a sign to continue, and with a sigh, he did. "Undoubtedly, our similarities have brought us close, but more as a professional relationship than anything else. But I would not be baffled if he just thinks of me as a pesky child. He keeps me in his sight, is constantly looking over me." Sherlock motioned towards the board for Watson to play. 

Watson tried to grab his piece while looking up as well. "Do you have anything that you do that he doesn't have a say in?" A low buzz startled the doctor. He cursed under his breath before passing the game tweezers to Sherlock. 

He was well aware that Watson was slowly coaxing him to talk about himself and his problems, yet his vulnerability did not bother him as much as he thought it would. "I have the cases, of course, but Mycroft looks over my work and what I have done with them. Or he scolds me for not solving it sooner. It always bothers me, that. He knows I am not as smart as him." He began to go for the frog in the throat.

"That makes sense, because that's why you started taking the drugs, yes? You thought it enhanced your thinking ability. You were under the impression it helped you work." Watson said these words with caution. A low buzz startled Sherlock as he touched the metal rim of the board. He looked at his hand with a sense of betrayal.

Watson shot Sherlock a look of concern. "Sherlock, are you with me? Does that make sense, what I just said?" 

With a spring of energy, Sherlock jumped up from the ground. "It's dinner time, yes?"

"Sherl-"

"Good then. I'll be back for my case afterwords. Good day."

Without another word shared between the two, Sherlock made his way out of the room and wrapped his jacket tighter around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a small reminder that I am trying to update every day, or every other day, until complete. Hope y'all are enjoying it.


	5. Crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was under the impression I had yet another day before I had to deal with you," Sherlock announced monotonously.
> 
> "Don't be difficult, brother mine. Besides," Mycroft took a seat in the desk chair, "Who is dealing with whom?"

Mycroft knew visitors were not supposed to come before a week, but he was only one day short of the seven day period and didn't have an open schedule the next few days to check on his little brother. The cheerful young woman he had met prior informed him it was not long after dinner time, and gave Mycroft the directions to Sherlock's room. 

Mycroft was unsure of what to expect upon seeing his brother once more. He was certain that his brother would be a bit more like himself without the drugs in his system, but Mycroft was aware harsh feelings towards him could affect Sherlock's mood as well.

Sherlock easily recognized the three clicks in the hallway, consisting of two feet and an umbrella as a cane. When the steps arrived closer to the door, he flipped his body around on his bed to face the wall. The door opened after a quick, double tapped knock. 

"Sherlock?"

"I was under the impression I had yet another day before I had to deal with you," Sherlock announced monotonously.

"Don't be difficult, brother mine. Besides," Mycroft took a seat in the desk chair, "Who is dealing with whom?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the wall. Mycroft observed the room in silence before resting his eyes on Sherlock. "How are you handling yourself here? How do you feel?"

The addict shifted his body to shoot his brother a nasty look. "Don't get affectionate over me now, Mycroft." His brother remained silent, for he knew silence was the biggest motivator to get his brother to speak. Sherlock was well aware of this fact, but continued anyways. "That doctor of mine, have a word with him, will you? He got on my nerves."

Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. "What minor inconvenience did he trouble you with?"

Sherlock sat up with a grunt to look at his brother. "He refused to give me the case that you sent." Irritation rose in Sherlock's voice. "I exited the room following one of our 'meetings' to go to dinner, and I informed him I would return to get it afterwards. Then, he wouldn't give it to me, despite your direct orders." The addict shook his finger in the air for emphasis.

"Did he inform you of why?"

"No, he gave no reason." Sherlock understood he was lying when he spoke this, but the irritation from the session had not subsided and this was a way he could take it out.

Mycroft rose from the chair, grabbing his umbrella. "Well, rest assured, the matter will be dealt with. I'll keep a close eye on Doctor Watson, and if more concerns arise he will be terminated with your care." Sherlock said nothing in reply. Upon reaching the door, Mycroft stopped. "Brother mine, in all honesty, how are you?" He was very cautious in these tender words. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes with great exasperation, his irritation quickly returning. "Dear Lord, get out! Out!" And with that, Sherlock shooed his brother out the door.

Mycroft left his brother with his displeasure as he made his way towards the front of the building to find the room he wanted. As expected, the perky woman was nearby and gave him the directions to Doctor Watson's office.

The doctor was preoccupied when Mycroft arrived at the door, a small ladder wobbling underneath him as he returned a game of Operation to a shelf. When Watson noticed the man, he gave the game a final shove into place and flashed a small smile towards the brother. "Mr. Holmes, nice to see you! I didn't expect to see you so early." He gestured towards the chair for the two of them to sit, yet Mycroft shook his head and chose to stand.

"Doctor Watson, it was brought to my attention that the cases that were meant to be delivered to my brother have been held, by you. Is this true?"

Watson rested his elbows on the back of a chair. "Yes, that's right."

"Even though it was made clear that those files would be directly and immediately given to my brother. According to him, this was done for no reason." 

The doctor smiled, but his eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. "Is that what he said?" Mycroft nodded in reply. Instead of defending his case, he simply nodded. "Alright then."

"It looks as if you don't agree with Sherlock's story," Mycroft commented as he straightened the cuffs of his jacket.

"If that is what Sherlock believes, then so be it. I assume you are going to want me to give it to him right away?"

"Yes, that would be in your best interest. Which begs another question: How has Sherlock been doing with the group therapy? I have stated previously I want him there three days a week."

"Mr. Holmes, he just got out of detox, barely a day ago. I was going to begin sending him Sunday. It's only a few days away, and it gives him time to settle."

A flicker of irritation crosses Mycroft's eyes. "My brother is of utmost importance here. I do not want him here for long. Sherlock is a unique man and requires different needs than most, needs that only I am aware of, and to go with the course I see best fit is not only within his best interest, but your own. You are being paid well to simply follow orders." Mycroft's words implied annoyance, but were said in a monotone voice. 

Watson hid his irritation less successfully. "You are breaking enough rules being here in the first place. Sherlock is a patient here like anyone else, and he wouldn't have been able to go to any session in the state he was during detox!" Watson took a moment to calm himself before continuing. "Yes, Sherlock is receiving extra treatment here than many others, and believe me, I am aware his mind works different than most, but he has problems too. And these problems, Mr. Holmes, do not go away by rushing through them."

"Doctor Watson, be wary of what position you are in here," warned Mycroft. 

"No, sir, I am aware of my position: I am Sherlock Holmes' doctor. You need to be wary of yours. You are his brother. You need to be supportive of him, and let him go his own way."

"If I let him go his own way, without proper adult supervision, he could be dead right now." Mycroft's voice held his even tone. "He would certainly not be in a facility like he is now. I have not led him wrong in the past, and I will not now. The path that I choose for him is what is going to work for him. On top of this, I do not need to be told what I do and do not need to do."

Watson was stunned by the man's sense of superiority. "Mr. Holmes, if you do not have anything else to say, I would like you to leave my office. We are not supposed to have visitors yet, so if you would like to come in some time next week, you are more than welcome to. But right now, my job is to listen to and help Sherlock, not you. That is what you have hired me to do, and I am doing my job how it is supposed to be done." With the help of his cane, Watson hobbled to and opened the door to his office. 

Mycroft obliged with no emotion before stopping in front of the door. "I was not being light-hearted when I said to watch your place, Doctor Watson. If I hear any more complaints, you can be assured that you will have no place at this facility any more." And with those final remarks, Mycroft began his march down the hallway.

Watson watched him retreat before calling after him. "Mr. Holmes? You were right about one thing." Mycroft turned to look back at the doctor. "Sherlock is of utmost importance."

He could hear Mycroft's steps fade down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, things will start to pick up its pace; for better or worse for the boys.


	6. Observed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson watched the light in Sherlock's eyes gleam with excitement, something John had not seen before. The detective talked without end, unraveling the case step by step. Watson was baffled by the conclusions Sherlock could draw from just a few crime scene photos, but after a few more moments of explanation, it seemed as if it could not have been more obvious. It became increasingly clear to the doctor that his patient was more of a mystery himself than he originally believed.

Quick rapping at the door jolted Sherlock awake from his restless slumber, and the doctor hurried his way through the door not a moment later. "Come on Sherlock, rise and shine. Meet me in my office in ten minutes. Breakfast will be delivered." The doctor was gone before Sherlock had a chance to reply.

Sherlock's annoyance with the doctor from the previous day had mainly eased, but he was not thrilled by any means to be in the sole company of Watson. Nevertheless, he dressed himself in a suit and blue scarf, layering his coat on top of it. Something about this simple act made him feel better about himself as he finally got out of the night clothes he was wearing at his flat for weeks on end. 

When he made his way to Watson's office, he was just as nervous to walk into the room as the first time. Sherlock knew his brother would have talked to Watson about the files, and no doubt gave Watson a warning. Despite this fact, it was clear that Watson seemed more energetic now than the last time the two were in the room.

"I see you aren't fired," Sherlock noted, testing the waters.

Watson hurried around his office collecting papers and pens. Now, there was a new table in the room, plain and foldable in between the two chairs. "That would be quite an observation," Watson mused, before finally looking up at Sherlock. "I'm not going to ask you why you said what you said to your brother. There was a reason I didn't give you the case, and you know that. You needed to earn it." Sherlock did not respond. Watson waited a moment more for a comment, reply, anything, but got none. 

With a sigh, Watson collected a familiar manilla envelope from his desk and placed it on the table before seating himself with a grunt. He motioned for Sherlock to sit, and he silently obliged. "Sherlock, am I talking to myself here?"

"What is this?"

"For the wisest person in the British Isles and quite possibly Europe, that's not a very brilliant question. It's your case."

Sherlock snapped back unintentionally. "I am not the wisest, my brother is." As soon as he said the words, Sherlock wanted to take them back. 

Silence and tension lingered hand in hand. Sherlock picked at the cuffs of his jacket.

"Why are you so sure of that, Sherlock?" Watson questioned.

Sherlock shifted his attention the casefile. "Are you wanting me to solve it, now?"

Watson sighed in resignation. "Close. I want us to solve it, together." The doctor picked up the casefile, spreading its contents over the table.

"No offense to you, Watson, but you are not nearly capable of solving these cases to the extent I am."

"Yeah, no offense," Watson mumbled under his breath with a smile. "Well then let me provide what little assistance I can. I may have been in the army, but I learned some medical knowledge as my time there as an army doctor. At the least, walk me through your process."

"If you insist," replied Sherlock, traces of doubt in his voice. And with that, Sherlock began observing the photos in silence.

It was not a few moments later when the detective began voicing his thoughts. "Lestrade's men must of put this case together; Lestrade and Mycroft would know better than to give me a case this easy." Sherlock held up photos of a corpse to Watson. "What do you make of this?" 

"Well, the man is naked except for the towel, indicating he could be coming out of the shower and the person knew-"

Sherlock cut him off abruptly. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Watson. What do you see from a medical standpoint?"

Watson took the photos from Sherlock to get a better look. "Obvious bruising on the lower ribs, as well as on the very bottom of the jaw. Gunshot wound mid-chest, probably right between the fifth and sixth rib. Not hitting any major organs. Death most likely caused by bleeding out."

"Good, yes. Stand up for me, Watson." The doctor could tell the addict's mood brightened significantly due to the short thrill of the case, so he did as he was told. "Mr. Callen McLeod was a rather short man, his height measuring one-point-six-eight meters, or five feet six inches. A similar, if not exact height to your own. So if someone was to give you a hard punch to the very bottom of your jaw..." Sherlock crouched down to be shorter than John.

"...The person who was initially fighting him would have to be quite short," John finished. 

"And from that and reasonably probability, we can safely assume that this was a woman. A woman who got mad, threw some punches, and then resorted to more extreme measures. She was definitely not used to handling a gun, because-"

"-Not many can miss any major organs from point blank distance." John interrupted.

"Precisely." The two returned to their seats. "Now, where would we go from this? It's quite easy to notice..."

Sherlock began his frenzied explanation of the details of the case, yet Watson could barely keep up. Instead, he watched the light in Sherlock's eyes gleam with excitement, something John had not seen before. The detective talked without end, unraveling the case baby step by baby step. Watson was baffled by the conclusions Sherlock could draw from just a few crime scene photos, but after a few more moments of explanation, it seemed as if it could not have been more obvious. It became increasingly clear to the doctor that his patient was more of a mystery himself than he originally believed.

As Sherlock neared the end of his lecture-like speech, the plump redhead woman from detox appeared at the doors of the office, pushing a food cart. She retrieved two trays with unstable hands. "Neither of you men made it to lunch, so I took the time out of my day to bring it to you. It's cold by now." There was no warmth in the woman's voice as she placed the trays smack dab on top of the case files. 

The two could only attempt to hide their chuckling as she made her way out of the office. Sherlock gingerly removed the plate from the files with a disapproving scowl. "I see she has something against me."

"Trust me, Sherlock, it's not you. That woman, Alicia, she's had something against me from the start," Watson chuckled. "We have a small history, me and her. I got her in trouble once. Nothing too big..." The doctor laughed again as if remembering a humorous memory. "But let me tell you, Alicia would do just about anything to get me fired." Watson picked at his -very cold- food with disgust. "How can it already be lunch? I must have forgotten to order breakfast for us."

"You know the saying, Watson. Time flies." 

"When you're having fun, you mean?" Questioned the doctor. Sherlock responded with a shrug. Watson chortled. "You find looking at dead corpses and receiving cold food amusing?"

Sherlock had to give a smile himself. "I suppose, yes. They tend to be more entertaining than the alive ones. Well, most of them."

"Your compliments are outstanding," Watson replied sarcastically.

With a jolt, Watson looked at his watch. "Ah, hell." He rubbed his temples in frustration. "You had one of your group therapy sessions forty-five minutes ago. It's too late to go in now." He contemplated to himself for a moment. "Look, Sherlock, that's the only one you could have gone to for the next few days. The others are full. Is there any chance this little mishap could slide by your brother?"

Sherlock gave Watson a little smirk. "Are you kidding me, an opportunity to miss a bunch of people blabbering about themselves and their problems? Why on earth would I tell?"

"Wonderful. How about as a reward, I show you that special room of yours, off of your bedroom?"

"Watson, don't fool me with this, 'reward,' nonsense. You know my brother would fire you on the spot if you didn't show me this room of mine the day he told you to. Which, may I remind you, is today."

"You got me," laughed Watson. "Well come along then, I doubt you find your cold meal very enjoyable."

"You could not be more correct, Watson."

Watson's cane remained in his chair as the two men strolled down the hallway, utterly content with each others presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although not as apparent now, our boys are slowly bringing themselves to more pressing matters. They will need to be very wary of their next steps as patients and doctors in order for their most desired outcomes to become reality. 
> 
> As a side note, I'm content with these short chapters, but if you think they should be longer, or even shorter, I'm open to suggestions. Thanks!


	7. Examined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two men shared a look, barely lasting a moment, but it did not seem nearly as short as they both gazed at each other. Sherlock looked at his doctor with gratitude and acknowledgement, and Watson looked at his patient with amusement and enjoyment. But both of the men looked at each other with not only friendship, but fondness.

The doctor was quite excited to show Sherlock his "reward" for completing his first week. He was given quite a large sum of money from Mycroft to put the room together. The elder brother handled the more expensive materials, but it was up to Watson to actually set up the room and work out the details. Overall, he was quite proud of his set-up.

At last, the two reached Sherlock's room. Watson turned to look at Sherlock, key in hand. "Look, Sherlock, this used to be a storage closet. A rather large storage closet, yes, but I had to make do. So don't be fussy, right?" With a curious grin, Sherlock nodded, and Watson opened the door. After a bit of fumbling, he found a rotary switch hanging from wires down the wall, and he switched it on.

Bright fluorescent lights lit up the room instantaneously. The room was indeed quite large for storage, to the point where it could have been a little side bedroom before its life as a storage closet. Both side walls had a long white table running from one side of the room to another. On top of one of these tables, a microscope similar to the one Sherlock had at the flat rested, as well as assorted beakers, flasks, safety equipment, and test tubes. Along the other, varied bags, boxes, and envelopes laid. 

Sherlock moved to the back of the room and pointed towards a makeshift eyewash station. "Really? Is this really necessary?"

"Oh come on, you twat. Believe it or not, it's not easy to make a laboratory out of a storage closet, so we had to make it at least somewhat legal."

He moved to point at the boxes. "And what's in here?" Sherlock questioned.

Watson dug around in his back pocket before pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Chemicals, swabs, etcetera. I can't pronounce half of what's on that list. I believe your brother went to your flat to see what you have there that you would also want here," replied Watson as he gave the list to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the list like it was the best Christmas present he could have ever received before throwing it on the table. He gripped Watson's shoulders in excitement. "Phosphorus pentoxide, potassium permanganate, erythrocytes... Watson, this is brilliant! Brilliant!" 

"Erythrocytes... isn't that bloo-"

"Watson, did you do this yourself? How much money did this cost you? What even shall I work on?" Sherlock spoke quickly and eagerly, overwhelmed with joy.

"Alright, take it easy Sherlock. Yes, I did this myself, with a bit of financial aid of your brother. Your friend in Scotland Yard is being allowed to send evidence here along with your daily cases, as long as it's secure and someone is watching you- that's me, by the way." Watson thought for a moment as if he couldn't place a thought. With a jolt, he remembered. "Ah, yes, that reminds me! Your friend sent three cases for today, not just the one. I'll go ahead and get those-"

"No, no, Watson. I suppose I must limit myself, to some degree. I am the addict here, yes? You can hold on to them for the time being."

"Ay, good plan. What are you going to do in the meantime? Stare at safety equipment?" Watson chuckled. 

Sherlock returned the laugh. "Come on now, Watson, I supposedly have three capsules of mystery erythrocyt-"

"Blood, Sherlock. Just say blood."

"Fine then! I have three capsules of mystery blood. No clue whose it is, what's wrong with it, where it came from... and I get to find out! I wouldn't be surprised if it was my birthday!"

"How on Earth did your brother manage to get mystery blood into a rehab facility? You can barely get a clothes pin in here."

"You underestimate my brother, Watson. You've seen him here before; he acts like he owns the place! And he easily could, if he had the sudden impulse to. He is the British government himself. Every nasty secret around, he knows all of it. Slipping this blood in here, it's as easy for him as poisoning children through chocolates!" Sherlock looked through the boxes as he talked, occasionally rubbing his hands together in amusement.

Watson chuckled to himself. "I don't believe that is the best example to use Sherlock. You could be sent somewhere far worse than here if you keep saying nonsense like that."

The two merry men shared a look, barely lasting a moment, but it did not seem nearly as short as they both gazed at each other. Sherlock looked at his doctor with gratitude and acknowledgement, and Watson looked at his patient with amusement and enjoyment. But both of the men looked at each other with not only friendship, but fondness.

\---

Mycroft twiddled a pen in his hand as his phone rang. The man was clearly expecting the call, as he picked it up not a moment later. 

"Yes, is this Ms. Alicia Gail Ardrey? Thank you for getting back to me." Mycroft listened to the voice on the other side of the phone.

"That is correct. I have a small task for you. You will, of course, be paid in full." 

"I am offering you two-hundred pounds for your first task. If there are any needed future assignments, you will receive an extra hundred pounds each."

"Alright. You are using your mobile phone now, yes?"

"I need you to go check to see if Doctor John Watson is in his office. If this is the case, simply walk away and tell me once you are out of earshot. If he is not, go into his office, close the curtains or blinds, and report back to me as soon as you see fit."

"Yes, I understand. I'll hold." 

Mycroft held the phone in between his shoulder and his ear as he grabbed a small notepad from the edge of his desk. He removed the phone from his ear, looking at the screen to jot down the number provided. It wasn't a few moments later the voice sounded on the other end of the phone. 

"Wonderful. Tell me, are there any case files on or around Doctor Watson's desk? This is crucial information, please look closely."

"Two? Are you positive?" Mycroft scribbled on his notepad. 

"Has Doctor John Watson and the resident Sherlock met in this room today?"

"I understand. I have one more question, Ms. Alicia. Do you know if Doctor Watson has any sort of schedule to note when Sherlock's meetings are supposed to take place?" The reply took a little while longer, but the answer was worth the wait to Mycroft.

"That's great. Is there any indication that Sherlock has gone to a meeting today? A check mark, or something of sorts?"

"It's alright, I wasn't expecti-" Quick words interrupted Mycroft on the other end of the phone.

"Is that so?" Mycroft jotted a few words down on the notepad.

"Were there any other meetings that he could have gone to today?"

"I see." Mycroft wrote a few last notes on his slip of paper. "Well thank you for your assistance Ms. Alicia. I have this number if I need you in the future, and we will discuss payment at a later date. Thank you. Good day."

Mycroft put his phone down with a thud. He thought to himself momentarily, satisfied with his work, before reaching into his bottom desk drawer. He pulled out a manilla folder, placing the slip of notepad inside of it. After closing the folder, he scribbled a name across the front of the folder:

JOHN WATSON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope those reading are enjoying the progression of the story! This chapter gave me some trouble, but I hope it meets y'all's expectations!


	8. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson would still hold cases for Sherlock, and Mycroft had yet to confront Watson that he knew the doctor was holding cases against his commands two times now. Of course, Watson was oblivious to the fact that Mycroft knew he had the files, similar to the fact Mycroft was oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had asked the doctor to hold the cases. But nothing was said from Mycroft's side, so the two men remained unaware of the other's information.

Two days after Sherlock's reward room was introduced, it was time for his first group therapy session. 

He picked at his food as he sat in his desk chair, watching the minutes tick by. Ten till the time he was supposed to leave, Watson appeared at his door. 

"You about ready to go?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I have a few minutes before I intend to leave, and I will make sure I am in that room for as little time as possible."

Watson fully entered the room, closing the door behind him and sitting on the bed. "Most people arrive a few minutes early. You know, just to get comfortable and such."

"I am perfectly fine waiting until last minute," Sherlock assured. "Besides, in the time that I have been in your company, would you use the words 'most people' to describe me?"

"I suppose not," Watson chuckled. 

Sherlock continued toying with his cold food. "What IS the point of this anyways?" Sherlock mused, irritation in his voice. "It's people having an excuse to complain, out loud, without anybody to stop them."

"Be considerate, Sherlock. You would be doing the exact same thing if your brother didn't give the pass on speaking. All you have to do is sit there and listen. But of course, if you wanted to talk..."

"Oh, shut up. I will do no such thing," Sherlock snapped.

Watson rested his elbows on his knees, sighing. "Sherlock, although it may not seem like it to you, you are in the same boat as all of these people here." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People talk about why the started going down this road into addiction. You have your reasons, with your work and..." Watson hesitated for a moment. "...and your brother."

Sherlock looked down at his food. "He is not a part of this."

Watson took a deep breath. "We have talked about this before, Sherlock. You have said before that you believe your brother is smarter than you, and he makes sure you know it. It has also been said that you started taking the drugs to enhance your thinking ability. Do you not see how this connects?"

Sherlock said nothing in reply, and silence lingered for many moments.

Watson gave up his little speech and rose from the bed. "Alright then. It's about time for you to go anyways."

This time Sherlock obliged, eager to get out of the conversation. "Sherlock," Watson called after him, "Have you noticed anything different the past few days?"

Sherlock looked back at him, giving a small smile. "The absence of your cane? Of course I did." Sherlock thought to himself a moment more. "Perhaps we are helping each other, not just one way around." With those final words, Sherlock strolled his way out of the room, leaving Watson chuckling to himself. 

When Sherlock did finally enter the room and the group session started, it was very clear to everyone what the detective's opinion on the place was. Sherlock said nothing, made no introductions, and just occasionally scoffed when other patients spoke until he would get scolded by the leader of the group.

He was more than thrilled when it was over. He hurried to Watson's office, and the two of them began working on another case. 

The two men continued this schedule for a while, rotating between one-on-one sessions, group therapy, and lots of case solving. Sherlock avoided conversation about his brother and the possible connection to his drug use, so Watson spoke of it very little, baby steps at a time. Watson would still hold cases for Sherlock, and Mycroft had yet to confront Watson that he knew the doctor was holding cases against his commands two times now. Of course, Watson was oblivious to the fact that Mycroft knew he had the files, similar to the fact Mycroft was oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had asked the doctor to hold the cases. But nothing was said from Mycroft's side, so the two men remained unaware of the other's information.

A week later, Sherlock and Watson were still following this schedule. Cases came in every day like clockwork. On this particular day in Watson's office, there was only one case. No evidence came through with it, just the files inside of the manilla envelope. 

Watson sorted through various patient sheets at his desk as Sherlock opened the files, spreading the papers out on the table. 

After a moments of silence, Watson looked up from his papers. "Well what is it today, Sherlock? Murder? Kidnapping? Perhaps something different, like a poisoning?" Watson questioned with a laugh.

Sherlock was not as amused, yet Watson could not place why. "Single murder, a hit and run of some sorts."

"Of some sorts?"

"Eric Caplan, 46. Shot in his home through his window at roughly ten thirty last Thursday. Not a single person in the neighborhood heard the bullet."

Watson put the papers down on his desk. "Silencer gun, perhaps?"

Sherlock sighed, irritated. "No, no, silencers are not nearly as quiet as believed. Not enough for no one in the whole area to hear it. I thought as an army man, you would know this." Watson was stunned at the man's sudden harsh words.

"Sherlock, you seem very upset all of a sudden. Is there someth-"

"How could this be!? The shooter couldn't have been far, or far enough to be out of earshot; the streets are close together, and Caplan lived in a one story house. How could someone avoid being seen on a tightly packed neighbourhood, and not be heard either!" Sherlock was standing now, pacing around the room. 

"Perhaps the shooter was on a roof or on top-" Watson attempted.

Sherlock interrupted, his anger and voice rising rapidly. "Watson, how dull do you think I am? Of course I thought about that. But the bullet hit his heart straight on- there was no angle on how the bullet was lodged. It MUST have come from the street, broken the window, and shot Caplan straight in his chest." Sherlock was pacing faster, furious at the case, more than Watson had ever seen. Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed the files from the table, chucking them across the room. 

Watson jumped from his desk chair, rushing to Sherlock. "Come on, let's sit down. Come on now." The doctor led his patient to his chair, waiting until he sat down. Once he did, Watson took a seat as well in the chair across from him, leaning forward on the small table. "Sherlock, tell me what's happening. What's going on?"

"I am fine." 

"Don't give me that crap. Sherlock, it seems you have solved many cases in your time, some more difficult than others. You don't have many resources here. Your friend from Scotland Yard, Lestrade, he could be missing vital information. That is very possible." Sherlock remained silent, burying his head in his hands. "Sherlock, you must not take this out on yourself. You are human, you are not perfect."

Sherlock still did not reply, so Watson took a deep breath and tried again. "Do you see that clock, Sherlock?" The doctor pointed to a clock on the wall. "I put that case in your hands five minutes ago. You opened it and read it a minute later. You have not been on this case five minutes yet."

Sherlock mumbled something into his hands.

"Come again?"

"I said that's not good enough. Five minutes, even if it was solved, would not be good enough."

Watson couldn't believe what Sherlock was saying. "Why on earth would you believe that?"

Sherlock looked up at his doctor, eyes filled with humiliation. Then slowly, Sherlock rose from his chair, looking amongst the stack of thrown papers. Tentatively, he picked up a piece of notepad paper, handing it to Watson while avoiding his gaze. 

"What's this?" Sherlock said nothing and sat himself in his chair. Watson flipped the paper over, reading the words scribbled on:

'Brother mine, I hope you are not offended by the ease of this case. The answer was entirely clear to me the minute I read the case. My report has already been delivered to Detective Inspector Lestrade, but I thought this could give you a few seconds of amusement. I would be quite disappointed if something like this were to stump you.'

Mycroft's name was signed at the bottom. 

Watson was infuriated. Why would Mycroft send such a thing? It was not meant to be motivational, by any means. There had been no notes in other cases, so what was the significance in sending this one, one that can have no positive interpretation?

"The bloody window," Sherlock muttered. This time, Watson was too furiated to respond, and simply looked at Sherlock, eyebrows furrowed. "The window was shattered, bits everywhere," Sherlock continued, voice low. "A window doesn't shatter when a bullet goes through it. The point of impact is miniscule and quick and force is evenly distributed. It just makes a hole." Sherlock's head dropped in his hands once more. "With proper care and cleaning, the body could have been killed elsewhere and brought to the home quickly. Use a tarp of some sorts to prevent blood elsewhere, then once putting the body down on the floor, put the tarp under the window. Break the window from the outside, glass falls quietly on the tarp. Few more moments of cleaning and careful glass placing, you are out of there."

Watson nodded to his comment, but his mind was elsewhere. Specifically focusing on what he could do with Mycroft. 

His thoughts were interrupted with a knock at the office door. The cheerful woman from the beginning of his stay was looking at Sherlock. "You have visitors in your room, how about you go have a chat?" Sherlock could not despise her joyful tone any more. Watson began to rise as well, but the woman stopped him. "Just the visitors and Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson."

Watson was disappointed, knowing that Mycroft would be one of the ones in the room. But nevertheless, he stayed back and watched Sherlock leave. 

Sherlock also knew Mycroft would be awaiting him in his room, and he dreaded that moment given that circumstances, but he could not understand who else his brother would bring. Surely, Mycroft wouldn't have gotten Lestrade to make a trip to the facility, but he didn't know anyone else it could be. 

Finally, Sherlock reached his room and opened the door. 

As expected, Mycroft was there. 

But the other person was definitely not Lestrade.


	9. Familial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As expected, Mycroft was there.
> 
> But the other person was definitely not Lestrade. 
> 
> "Mummy?"

As expected, Mycroft was there.

But the other person was definitely not Lestrade. 

"Mummy?"

Mycroft stood in the corner of the room leaning against his umbrella, avoiding Sherlock's gaze with his mouth set in a hard line. Sherlock's mother, however, studied every inch of Sherlock as she sat on his bed, the corners of her eyebrows raised in concern. 

Sherlock shifted his attention to his brother. He dared not enter the room more, and stood, frozen, near the door. "Mycroft?" The eldest brother glanced up. Sherlock gave him a look: why? Mycroft returned his focus to his umbrella. 

Sherlock's mother broke the silence quietly, hesitantly. "Why, Sherlock? After all this time?" Her expressions showed sorrow, but her tone was angry. 

The youngest Holmes brother fiddled with his jacket, thinking about everything that him and Watson had talked about. Instead, he responded with a much simpler, easier reply. "It- It helped me work." He waved his hands out in frustration, unable to find the words. "It helps- helped me think." Sherlock spoke the truth, yet saying it to his mother made his speech inarticulate.

"Why would you choose to harm your astonishing brain with drugs? You must have been aware that the consequences would damage your brain, not make it better by any means." His mother clutched a purse by her side, knuckles on the verge of turning white.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and shifted from foot to foot. Why had Mycroft decided to tell their mother, even after Sherlock had gone to a facility to make everything better? What more could he have done?

Mycroft picked at his suit. "Why don't you sit down, Sherlock?" he offered.

"What IS your point here, exactly? Don't you have a government to run?" Sherlock snapped. 

His mother retorted just as quickly. "Sherlock, sit. Now." Sherlock obliged without another word, carefully sitting himself in the desk chair. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm here, aren't I? What more would you want out of me?" Sherlock barked to the wall in front of him. 

"I want my son to tell me when his life is being ruined by his own hand." Silence lingered, accompanied by clouds of tension.

Mycroft stepped out of his corner. "It was important that I told our mother, Sherlock. Not only for the obvious reasons, but because there has been a development."

Their mother looked up at Mycroft curiously. "And what's this, Mikey?"

Mycroft ignored the name. "It seems that this facility will not be fit for Sherlock. We will have to go with what I suppose you could call Plan B." Mycroft looked at his brother. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

Sherlock could feel his heart start to pound in his chest. "What? No. This place is fine. Perfect."

Mycroft continued. "Mother, I am under the belief that you will want to watch over Sherlock, yes?"

"Of course, yes. It's better that he is under my care anyways," their mother replied. 

Sherlock laughed nervously. "No, I will not allow this. This facility has been wonderfu-"

Mycroft interrupted, his voice raised ever so slightly. "Sherlock, please. This is what is best for you." 

His mother joined in. "Yes, Sherlock, this is what will suit you most. Won't you be glad to get out of this place? All the people, you must hate it! We are doing you a favour."

"Mycroft, why would you say such a thing? Watson has been the perfect doctor for me treatment! None of his actions could be seen as questionable, by a long shot!" Sherlock winced as soon as he said the words. He cursed himself under his breath, knowing full well what was about to go down.

Mycroft laughed in disbelief. "You were not here a week before you told me about actions of his that could be deemed 'questionable!' I am aware you may not be thrilled to go home with mother, but don't outright lie!"

Sherlock was ready to plead, beg. This facility was the only place he felt truly understood, the only place where people -people being Watson- would listen to what he had to say. It had its bad days, but its worst days would be better than any day under his mother's care, where his words meant nothing. "Mycroft, that's exactly what I did! I lied! I knew why he kept that one case, and I was frustrated!" Sherlock took a moment, attempting to calm himself. "Please, brother. He did what he should have done. It was one case, Mycroft, just the one. That's it." Sherlock looked into his brother's eyes, hoping Mycroft would find the logic in his words.

He had no such luck. "Doctor John Watson went against a direct order. On top of this, he did not send you to your group therapy session, which I told him to do not a day before!" Mycroft took a moment to regain his composure. "On top of this, it was brought to my attention he was holding even MORE cases!"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes darted around the room as if they would find the answer. His eyes widened as he realized what his brother was talking about. "Wait, no, are you talking about the cases in his office! Mycroft, I was the one who told-"

It was his mother that interrupted this time, who had been listening to the bickering. "Sherlock, enough!"

Mycroft had had enough, his tone of voice no longer suppressed. "Brother mine, it is quite apparent that you need others to guide you through your life, which means that I have to be the one to deal with it! So listen to me, and let me guide you!"

Sherlock's hands trembled, his breathing rapid. "Why, Mycroft?! Why do you get to decide where my life goes?!"

"Because it goes to hell if you decide!"

"Mikey..." Their mother warned.

Mycroft paid no attention to it. "Why can't you just listen to me?! Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?!"

"No, Mycroft, why can't you listen to me, instead!?" The boys' mother was trying to quiet them down, yet neither listened.

Mycroft was fully outraged. His blood boiled in frustration and his jaw clenched. "Because you, brother mine, are unbelievably dull! You fail to see the obvious, to observe the things within your sight, to understand the simplicity of everyday matters! Well understand this, Sherlock: You are nothing here, brother mine. Not with me. Not with me in the room."

With a jolt, the door flew open. "You two, get out of this room, now!" Fuming, John Watson stood in the doorway. Mycroft began to speak, hands clenched. Watson stopped him in an instant. "Don't you dare say a single word to me, Mr. Holmes. I need both of you out of Sherlock's room, now, or I will call security," Watson threatened, voice stern and low. 

After a moment, Sherlock's mother left the room. Mycroft stood in place.

Watson strode towards the brother, stopping with his mouth almost touching Mycroft's ear. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "You threatened to ruin my job, my position. I want to make it absolutely clear to you that I can ruin yours."

A clock ticked in the background. After twenty-three seconds more, Mycroft left the room. 

Sherlock dared not look up at the doctor. Instead, he felt wetness slide down his cheeks.


	10. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why can't you grant yourself the validity of having human emotions? Everyone has them, even you."

Sherlock dared not look up at the doctor. Instead, he felt wetness slide down his cheeks.

Watson rushed to his side, kneeling beside the chair. "Come on, Sherlock, talk to me. Talk to me."

Sherlock's head dropped in his trembling hands. His world spun, Watson's words flowed together. Blood rushed in his ears. His brain couldn't process words, much less formulate them. "John," he muttered weakly.

Watson was surprised at the use of his first name, yet now was not the time to question it. He grabbed Sherlock's quivering hands, holding them to let Sherlock know he was there. "Can you understand me, Sherlock? Do you hear me?"

Sherlock could not see through his tear-filled eyes, but he felt shivers run through his body. He could not understand what John was saying, but he felt Watson's hands over his own. Sherlock could not bring in air fast enough. "I'm sorry, John..." he gasped for breath. "I'm being... childish." It felt as if a needle was stabbed into his heart.

Watson was struggling to keep his calm, certain voice. "Sherlock, you are being anything but. This is a perfectly natural response." He watched his patient tremble, shiver, and shake. "Come on, mate, you're having a panic attack. Deep breaths."

The last thing Sherlock could do was breathe deeply. This was something he had never dealt with, never experienced. He was overwhelmed with emotion, overwhelmed with his complete vulnerability. Sherlock felt ready to pass out.

"Sherlock, do you know what's happening?" John attempted to clear the lump in his throat as he watched his suffering friend. 

Sherlock shook his head, still buried in his shaky hands. 

John held Sherlock's hands tighter. "A few minutes ago, your body went into fight or flight mode. Your sympathetic nervous system sent adrenaline and other chemicals through your bloodstream. But your body spiked the adrenaline." John hoped the explanation would help Sherlock feel more at ease. "You may feel like you are going to die, Sherlock, but it will pass. I promise."

John squeezed Sherlock's hands. "Do you feel that, Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded. "That's to show you that I'm right here, you understand? I'm right here." John's voice cracked unexpectedly. He had witnessed plenty of patients have panic attacks, yet Sherlock's was affecting him in ways that others' did not.

Sherlock remained in that chair for ten more dreadful minutes, and John stayed next to him for every second of it. When the last of his trembling died down, Sherlock felt numb. Empty. He felt as if he was nothing but the shell of a human.

Once John was sure Sherlock was not a risk to himself, he finally stood from his crouched position. His voice was steady now, and he spoke softly. "I'm going to fetch you a glass of water."

He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before he tried to depart, but Sherlock grabbed it before he could take it away. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Can you bring Operation?"

John's mouth went into a half smile. "Of course," he replied gently. Sherlock removed his hand, and John went off to run his errands. 

Sherlock didn't move a muscle between the time John left and came back. Instead, he ran his brother's words over and over again through his mind. "You are nothing here," he had said. "Not with me in the room," Mycroft yelled. There was not another time Sherlock could remember his adult brother lose his calm, formal tone of speech. His brother was the perfect picture of formality, and the sole time he chose to break it was to fight his own sibling.

John must have rushed his way back, for he was back in what felt like a minute. A glass of water carefully balanced on the game of Operation. "Shall we sit?"

Sherlock nodded, and the two sat on Sherlock's bedroom floor similar to the way they did the first time they played. While John set up the game, Sherlock sat in his own bubble, thoughts elsewhere.

"Sherlock? How do you feel?" John questioned gently. "A bit raw, for lack of a better word?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"That's alright. It's perfectly natural."

"It isn't. Not for me." Sherlock fidgeted with his sleeves. "I don't have these emotions that others do. And I shouldn't have."

John put the remaining pieces in the board. "Why can't you grant yourself the validity of having human emotions? Everyone has them, even you." He handed Sherlock the game tweezers. Blindly, but with effort, Sherlock pulled out the rubber band in the leg. He handed the tweezers back to John. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked down at the board. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" Watson approached his words with caution, careful not to set Sherlock off. He then attempted to blindly grab the bell in the ear, but the buzzer sounded and he offered it back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock didn't take it. "They believe it would benefit me most to go home with Mummy. Mycroft discovered the cases in your office and have deemed you untrustworthy."

"Did you tell them why I had them?" John put the tweezers down. "It's okay if you didn't. I won't be upset."

Sherlock finally looked at John with pleading eyes. "I tried to, I really tried to. They would not listen to me. I couldn't even get the words out." He looked back at the floor in shame. 

A hand greeted Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, it's alright. I promise you, everything is alright. If and when Mycroft comes back, everything will be explained. Everything will be fine. You must not beat yourself up over this."

"How can't I? Your whole career can be ruined by this." Sherlock shook his head. "No, not by 'this.' By me. I was the one who told my brother about that first case. That's how this all started."

"Sherlock, you were angry with me. Reasonably so. You didn't know all this would happen." John held up the tweezers again, and this time, Sherlock took them. 

Once he had removed a piece, he looked at the clock. "Don't I have a group therapy around this time?"

"We are having it right now. Me, you, and Cavity Sam."

"Cavity Sam?" Sherlock asked. John motioned towards the man on the Operation board. Both of them had to give a chuckle. "Yes, it seems as if he has his own problems," Sherlock concluded. 

After their giggling died down, the sober mood returned. "Why do you choose to defend me? Why aren't you upset?" Sherlock was almost irritated by the comforting words from his doctor. 

John gave Sherlock a smile as if it couldn't be more clear. "Because, Sherlock. I care for you. Not only as your doctor, but as your friend. Isn't it obvious?"

Sherlock thought to himself for a moment. "You are my doctor, not my friend."

John looked back up at Sherlock, amused. "You don't believe that."

He didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters! Hope all of y'all still like how the story is going.


	11. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, our story begins to reach its end.

The two men grew even closer over the next week. When Sherlock was not having meetings or sessions, him and John spent majority of their time on incoming cases. No more notes were slipped into envelopes, so the two just bonded over the one thing they could; the work. Sherlock knew the cases could be solved easier, if not quicker, without the presence of John, but he had grown quite close to his doctor and enjoyed the few words of input he provided. Of course, sometimes John did assist when it came to tidbits of medical information; he had played quite a significant role in a case the previous day that revolved around military experience and procedure. 

But on this day, no cases came in from Lestrade, and all was slow in the office. When cases were solved in mere minutes and there were no plans for the remainder of the day, the two engaged themselves in multiple games of operation. 

John pulled out the clock from the Operation board, eyes focused on Sherlock. 

"You've been practicing, I see," Sherlock noted. 

John handed the tweezers to Sherlock. "Oh, now and then. Bit hard to explain to my colleagues why I'm playing Operation alone at night," John chuckled. 

"Quite right," Sherlock responded with a smile. 

A knock sounded at the door, the familiar face of the cheery woman appearing. "You have one visitor in your room, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll send him in a moment," John replied with a plastered smile on his face. He gave a knowing look towards Sherlock. Mycroft. "Sherlock... I can send him away if you would like."

Sherlock rose, tightening his coat around him. "No, no. I'll be fine." He said his words confidently, but his body language said otherwise. Regardless, he made his way out of the room.

John followed. "You aren't going in there alone. I'm coming." Sherlock nodded in approval, and the two continued to the his room.

The two were greeted unsurprisingly with Mycroft, who stood expectantly in the middle of the room. As Sherlock and John entered, Mycroft looked towards John with mild surprise and irritation.

"Doctor John Watson, I wasn't expecting you to be joining the conversation. I would prefer it if I had a moment alone with my brother."

Instead, John leaned against the bedroom wall. "Sorry, I think I would like to... monitor the conversation." John plastered on a fake smile towards Mycroft.

Mycroft elected to ignore the doctor and instead turned to face his brother. "Sherlock, Mummy is quite upset with the both us, and she is refusing to take you in for the time being. Of course, other plans can be arranged, but I am still working out the details. Therefore, that is the only reason," Mycroft shot a glance towards John, "You are still in this facility."

Sherlock was already irritated with his brother, despite his nervousness before entering the room. "Are you not going to listen to me, or shall I tell you where you are wrong?"

Although irritated, this time Mycroft remained his even tone of voice. "Sherlock, please do not try to lie to get your doctor out of his circumstance. If that is what you are going to do, then no, I won-"

"Mycroft, let him talk," John snapped. The two stared daggers at each other, but Mycroft broke it off. 

Sherlock took a breath, shaking off his irritation. If he was going to make this better, he was going to do it the right way. "As I mentioned in our last meeting, I was the one lied when you asked if there was a reason John- or Doctor Watson- had held back the case. He had a reason to do so, but I was frustrated with him and therefore told you he did not." Sherlock looked up at his brother, gauging his reactions, before continuing. "The cases that you discovered in Doctor Watson's office were meant to be there; I told him to keep them. That was entirely my decision." 

Mycroft remained silent. Sherlock desperately wanted something from his brother, something that meant he fixed all of the mess he had made. "Mycroft?"

Instead, his brother turned towards John. "Is this all true?"

"Yes."

Mycroft examined his umbrella slowly, seconds ticking by in the background. Finally, he put his umbrella down. "I suppose what this means," He looked up at the two of them, "Is that I owe the both of you an apology." Mycroft made his way towards the chair and sat down. "Before I continue, I will still mention that either way, you did not follow the orders that were given to you," Mycroft stated as he looked towards John. 

Instead of arguing, John simply nodded. "I understand."

"But anyways," Mycroft continued, "I did not listen to the facts, and instead came to my own conclusions and accusations of you, Doctor Watson. And for that, I do apologize. Any threats on your career should be disregarded entirely."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I accept your apology." John, as well as Sherlock, were both surprised at the man's admission.

"Does this mean I can now get a few minutes alone with my brother?" Mycroft questioned. "It would be greatly appreciated."

"Nope." John almost had to laugh at his attempt.

"Well so be it." Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "Sherlock," Mycroft began, "I would also like to... clear the air between us. I believe both of us are in the wrong here, and I apologize for my half of it."

Sherlock looked at his brother. "What do you define as, 'your half of it?'"

"My temper got a bit out of hand, and I could have listened to you." Mycroft returned his brothers' gaze. "That is what I apologize for."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "And what is my 'half of it?'"

"I do believe you can try to be a bit more... understanding of what me and Mummy are trying to do for you." 

Sherlock scoffed. "Please, that's a terrible idea. Shouldn't I be able to choose my own path?" Sherlock looked towards John for insight.

John sighed. "Yes, Sherlock, you should be able to choose your path. But attempting to be more understanding of offered help... that seems reasonable."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's remark, but sighed in resignation nevertheless. "Alright, Alright." He looked back at his brother. "I'm sorry."

John waited for him to say more, but nothing else came. "Sherlock, perhaps a bit more?"

"Yes, yes, fine." Sherlock sighed. "I apologize for not being so understanding." He spit out his words fast, as if ripping off a bandaid.

After more seconds ticked on the clock, Mycroft rose from his chair and extended his hand to his brother. Silently, Sherlock shook it as sort of a silent agreement.

No more than a moment later, his brother was already out the door. 

Silence filled Mycroft's place for many moments.

Finally, John broke the silence.

"Operation?"

"Absolutely."


	12. Operation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final end to our story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the notes at the end! Other than that, please enjoy the last chapter.

Sherlock watched himself button up his shirt and put on his coat in the small bathroom mirror. This was a routine he had followed for a few months now, but his fingers slowed as he tightened the coat around him. This was not a day like any other, for it would be the last day in the facility and with the company of Doctor John Watson.

He wished he could say he felt indifferent about the whole scenario, but the nagging in his head told him otherwise. Sherlock was not thrilled with the idea of being sent home, but he was not against the idea as well. None of this mattered, of course, because Sherlock had completed the time he needed in the facility which meant his residence was over. 

John's emotions were less concealed and he constantly paced his office as he waited for Sherlock to arrive at their last meeting. It was hardly that; it was more of a final result or check up until his ride arrived. John had grown close to his patient, which was generally ill-advised. He was torn between being giddy with excitement of the progress Sherlock had done and being sullen that their time was over. When Sherlock finally shuffled his way into the room, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

John motioned towards the ground, where the familiar game of Operation laid. "One last round?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile, but John could tell that his eyes did not express the same emotion. "Of course." 

The two seated themselves as they usually did, John on the left and Sherlock on the right. Both of the men had increased their skills of blind Operation greatly, so Sherlock and John treated it more as a game of speed. 

John picked out the first piece; the rubber band. Sherlock chuckled. "Trying to get the easiest pieces, I see? Lower your time a bit?"

"It's not cheating, Sherlock, it's merely strategy," John retorted with a laugh as he handed the tweezers to Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled out the bird from the head. "It's alright, John, you'll need it."

John simply shook his head as he grabbed the tweezers back. "Are you excited to go back?" He plucked out the frog and returned the tweezers. 

"I suppose so." Sherlock fiddled with the smiley face until it came out. "I'll have to get my housekeeper to make some adequate food for once; this place may as well be serving dog food." By the end of this statement, John had already pulled out his piece and was returning the tweezers to Sherlock.

"Cheers to that," John laughed. "Wait," John questioned, "You have a housekeeper?"

"She likes to think of herself as just the landlady."

A knock at the door startled them, and the joyful woman from the front informed them that Sherlock's car was at the front, and he had already been checked out.

Once she left, Sherlock looked back at John. "Did you know I still don't know her name?"

"It's alright," John assured, "I called her by the wrong name for the first three weeks." The two shared a laugh before heading out of the office, the both of them unintentionally slowing their steps. 

When they arrived at the front, Sherlock felt just as nervous taking the step over the threshold to the outside as he did when he first stepped into John's office. 

John noticed his uncertainty. "It's alright, Sherlock," John said gently. And with that little push, Sherlock took his first step outside of the facility. 

Mycroft stood in front of their private car, waiting for Sherlock. 

"You will look after him for me, won't you? And let him go his own way sometimes, yes? Within reason, of course." John told Mycroft.

"Don't worry," Mycroft replied, "I'll keep him out of trouble."

"Good." The two men shook hands, and for the first time, both had utmost respect for eachother. 

Sherlock turned to his brother. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?" Mycroft questioned it for a moment, but silently obliged and entered the car. John and Sherlock stepped away from the car, hoping that their last moments could be more confidential.

"So here we are," John started. 

"I accepted it." 

"Sorry?"

"The second day I was here, that was what you told me." Sherlock thought back, remembering the conversation. "You said, 'With just a little bit of trust, this will be your ticket out of here. All you have to do is accept it.' Well that's what I did, I suppose. I accepted it."

"Ah, I see." John didn't know what to say. "I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock."

Both of the men knew that this was a big moment, yet neither knew what should be said or what should be done in it. Sherlock and John were both aware that they would miss the other's presence, but nothing could be done for that. 

"Yeah, okay. I can't think of a single thing to say," John admitted. 

"No, neither can I."

John thought for a moment. "I think I'm going to leave this place. Find something else, just for a change."

"Where will you go?"

"No clue," John laughed. "I'll stay around though, maybe just hop around a bit to see where I like." 

"Get yourself into some trouble?" Sherlock chuckled.

John laughed along. "Yeah, I'll get myself into some trouble."

"Well then," Sherlock said as he adjusted his coat, "If you ever do get into trouble and have a case, I'll be there for you." Sherlock extended his hand towards John. "Until next time?"

John shook his hand. "Oh, there better not be. Not here, anyways. But that's for the best."

Finally, the two let go. "Thank you, Doctor John Watson."

"And thank you, Sherlock Holmes. You were quite the case." 

With a sigh, Sherlock returned to the car, and headed off. John watched as the car left the long driveway, and he knew he would never meet such an incredible man again. 

John Watson felt his eyes tear up, but he was truly happy. He didn't know where he would go next, or what he would do, but he knew that his patient had given him the best time of his life. 

When John left a month later, he didn't need to bring much home from his office. He basically left his work room as is, only one thing under his arm as he took his last step out of the office: 

The long, yellow board game of Operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that y'all liked the story. This was my first time writing something that I knew others were going to read. I would really like it if you left any sort of comment with advice, your opinion on it, anything! It can be what I could have done better, what was bad, what was good, etc. I would just like ANY feedback at all. 
> 
> In addition to this, I left the story open where it is possible for a sequel or follow up, but I am not sure if I will do it or not. 
> 
> But, as my closing remarks, I truly hope that those who read this appreciated and loved reading it. Thank you!
> 
> -Hannah JY

**Author's Note:**

> This is not an original idea: It is based on the work, "Brother mine, I'm sending you to rehab, and Dr.Watson will oversee your treatment." by Watson_to_my_Holmes, who had the idea from an instagram post.


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